


Coral Blooms

by RocBaroque



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crimson Flower with a twist, Epistolary Romance, F/F, Flayn Deserved More Supports, Gals being pals, Gen, cathmir in the background, setleth in the background, teenage dragon angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocBaroque/pseuds/RocBaroque
Summary: One freezing night in Pegasus Moon, a good girl with a heart full of hope (and world-shaping secrets) flees the Church of Seiros to join her friends in the Adrestian war effort. But this is a new Empire, with no need for the saints of the old religion. How can she possibly make a difference in a place she doesn't belong and to which she was never invited? Can she keep the love in her heart alive before the traumas of her family freeze it solid?(What if Flayn didn't leave your army when you sided with Edelgard?)
Relationships: Flayn/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 25
Kudos: 53





	1. Saint Cethleann Falls from Her Stolen Wyvern, Twice

_"Where should you look when you fall?"_

She knows the stars are glittering somewhere under her heels. Perhaps it would be a more comforting sight. But her stomach rolls like a bass on the end of a line and despite all her training—the hours, the seminars!—she can't command her own inertia to right herself.

 _"Heavens, that all depends on your mount. With the monastery's resources you'd_ think _they'd have the time to split us off into two separate classes—as though I could possibly explain how to ride a_ wyvern! _Honestly. Excuse me, Hilda, back to your question—"_

But Hilda had stopped paying attention already, hadn't she? Was it months ago, or merely last week? The world below is a muddy mess of black, black-blue, black-green, a worse void than the midnight sky. Would she fall for-ever? Would she simply die or... Or go back to...

 _"Pegasus Knights are drilled to keep their eyes on the ground during such an event—no ifs, students, be assured this is_ when _you fall—and mostly this is because a properly-trained, well-bred and in other ways healthy pegasus will know to maneuver himself under a rider in free-fall. For wyvern riders, however, we teach the opposite. Do any of you know why? Oh, yes—Flayn."_

She comes to a sudden and terrible Stop.

Her neck cracks painfully, her traveler's cloak suddenly, breathlessly tight around her chest. She dangles and dances in the air like a marionette, the tops of east Oghma trees still invisible to her. Is she meters above the ground still? Inches? 

At her back begins a low-pitched whine.

_"A wyvern will catch you as well! That is, with her claws, or her teeth, in whatever manner is most efficient for her."_

And the other girls—Hilda, Bernadetta, Lysithea—looked horrified in various measures, but Professor Manuela had smiled and praised her and said something about how, naturally, wouldn't Flayn know this of any of the girls here, her brother being who he is, perhaps it runs in the family or etcetera and etcetera, and— 

—My, is it hard to breathe like this, with a wyvern clutching on to you by the back of your winter tunic and doing its level best to twist you back astride it.

"Roísín," she croaks from her squeezed lungs, and the old reptile only continues to whine, flopping ungainfully and perhaps understandably given there is a Girl in her mouth. The Girl struggles and flails, dignity be damned, finally grasping hold of a rear talon in one hand. The wyvern follows through, eagerly committing to a maneuver Flayn is certain she must have seen before, but, having never executed it herself, it sends her sliding off the other side of the wyvern's back, in danger of tumbling into the Dark once again. 

"Roísín, _stop_ ," she commands in her most imperious voice, though it comes out too much like a shriek. Her fingers wrench painfully in the leather straps of the saddle. Roísín does stop, as much as she can, settling into a steady wingbeat. The muscles in her arms and back a burning agony, Flayn drags herself up between the wyvern's shoulder blades and shoves her arms under the reins, pressing herself flat against the cool leather of Roísín's neck. No, no falling here. Nothing but muscle and scales.

Her heart threatens to burst through her ribs. The inside of her chest is ragged. She hadn't been screaming, had she? She has no memory of anything but the Slip, the Fall, the sudden Absence of something solid beneath her. She had been thinking of the letter. She had been fighting sleep. 

The letter. With a painful gasp she lurches upright, wrenching her hands free that they can fly to the inner pocket of her cloak. There she finds a subtle but comforting Shape, a carefully folded bit of parchment, the dire warnings and heartfelt advice at her back, as if to keep her dear friend there to support her through this whole wild Endeavor. 

_I will see her soon!_ The thought buoys her. She wraps the reins twice around her hands. _Before the night is out, we will be comrades again. And I—I will be doing what's right._ It is _this_ thought that gives her a thrill of terror and joy. _In spite of my family's wishes, I will be doing what is right!_

Flayn murmurs to the old wyvern and nudges her with her boot heels, the way she had always seen her father do. Another difference between them and pegasi, she thinks. Pegasi are too obedient to need orders.

 _He will be furious when he discovers_. Furious. Yes. The easiest reaction for her to imagine, if only because she cannot abide the alternative. Furious, because, after all, Flayn has snuck out. Flayn has adventured alone. Flayn has taken Roísín without permission—without proper training.

Flayn has betrayed them.

 _By doing what is right_ , she insists, _which is—is the opposite of wrong!_

Ah... powerfully said. Truly, such inspirational words. She sighs at herself. Her professor would be proud.

Oh—the Professor. He will be there, too. Her good cheer (and guilty excitement) continue unabated. He _will_ be proud of her, she's sure of it. He has made a Choice almost as grave as hers, to leave the Monastery and continue protecting his students, to defy the Archbishop and—

The breathlessness that grips her is of a kind all its own. Sad, she assures herself. Lady Rhea will be sad. _Ice-white scales in a place that reeks of Death._ Sad, disappointed. _Screams so loud her head hurts, her stomach churns. Talons and teeth the size of grown men._ The easiest reaction for her to imagine, if only because she cannot abide the alternative.

This is not a chill her traveler's cloak can protect her from. She gathers it close anyway, thankful to have foregone her usual formal attire for something hardier. The sight of a dim orange glow beckoning through the trees warms her, as though she were right beside that illicit Fire. "We are almost there," she tells her father's wyvern, even if it can't really understand her. Then she will land a safe distance away, approaching with the colors of peace and civility (as taught to her by Professor Byleth, in one of his seminars on Conduct During a Cease-Fire). She will send Roísín back to the Monastery. And she will be a Black Eagle once again.

It strikes her suddenly that the night is silent. Between her constant thoughts, between the rhythmic roll of thunder from her Heart, the midnight world had felt crowded and alive. Now there is just a cold winter wind, the beat of leathery wings, and in the distance, a quiet night bird's whistle.

But, now, isn't that strange? What manner of winter bird would wake at such a—

Roísín screams and dips a wing. Another whistle bolts past them, a tiny gust of wind tugging at her glass-green hair. Arrows. They are under fire. The reins creak in her grip. She struggles with her cloak. The lining—the inner lining is white, and she meant to flash it when they approached the light but here—here, they won't see—

Another arrow, then another, and Roísín is tipping wildly to avoid them. Flayn scrabbles uselessly at the wyvern's hide, at the smooth worn leather of the saddle. 

Her heel drives into nothing, again, not _again_. 

Roísín rolls to her side and Flayn slips into the Dark, arrows singing all around.

_"Where should you look when you fall?"_

She reaches toward the stars. The wyvern is a black crescent moon spinning farther, farther away.

An arrow slices neatly through her cloak. A scream that isn't hers pierces neatly through her skull. She comes to a sudden and terrible Stop. The air rushes from her lungs.

"Oh my gosh," comes a nonstop, babbling cry. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh." Is that her? She finds it impossible to tell. Roísín gives a distant roar, now a speck of black against dark blue ink. 

White feathers rush all around her. And that endless, terrified prayer... " _Oh my gosh, oh my gosh._ "

She finds she knows that voice. She knows this prayer.

"Bernadetta," she squeaks.

"Don't kill me," the voice begs breathlessly. "Ohhh don't kill me, please, I'm not the one with the arrows, I'm just, taking, a midnight flight, in freezing weather, it's not suspicious at all and I'm _definitely_ not a scout—"

"Bernadetta!" Flayn rolls in a shapeless lump of traveling gear, useless cloak, loose green hair. The rump of the pegasus beneath her is solid as Rock, compared to the pitching flight of a wyvern. "It is only me!" She tries her best to find Bernadetta's shoulders to give her a gentle shake.

"Oh sure you _sound_ like Flayn don't you," Bernadetta continues her high-pitched stream of words, hunched and never looking back at her errant passenger. Her knuckles are as white as the mane they are tangled within. "But Flayn would never _death-from-above_ me not me not poor Bernie oh my _gosh_ why did I agree to this patrol—"

The pegasus makes a rapid descent, giddy with the scent of Bernadetta's terror. Flayn digs her knees into the hysterical thing's flank, wrapping her arms tight around her fellow student's waist. The young Miss Varley shrieks, quick and sharp, before going suspiciously limp.

A bit terrible so far, this Adventure, Flayn reflects, squinting into the dark. Their mount's landing is rough, clacking her teeth together. Mud and slush splash up her legs. Bernadetta lolls in her arms. Beyond the white hide of the nervous pegasus, she can see nothing, and hear only the low roar of trees in the winter wind. The source of the ranged attacks remains to be seen.

"No one patrols alone," she muses quietly to herself, the words forming faint little clouds on the cold breeze. "Especially not our 'Bernie.'"

Even colder now, the breeze responds. "She's not alone."

The point of a lance's head slides up between the two of them with a surgeon's precision. Flayn scrambles back on the pegasus with a gasp frozen between her lips. The lance follows her like an eager friend at tea, coming to rest against her collar.

Her own lance, Flayn realizes with a sick and sudden panic, is on Roísín's back. A very unladylike word jumps to her lips, but she hasn't the courage to let it fly.

Several heartbeats pass. A pale face emerges from the dark, with violet eyes sharp and calculating. "You," the woman observes in a flat voice.

"Miss Shamir," Flayn finally acknowledges, finding her mind completely blank with fear. Bernadetta slumps back against her, very obviously unconscious. 

The lance simply moves to between Flayn's eyes. 

"...Good evening?" The formal greeting squeaks out of her before she can stop it.

"We're three hours flight from the monastery." Shamir's words are without any Light or Color, making it impossible to read her intent. "What are you doing here." Her eyes scan upward briefly; she's searching the sky. "...Alone." 

That last part... _Might_ have been surprise. Flayn gathers her returning courage. Yes! She is here alone. With her _own_ ideals, making her _own_ choices. "I am a Black Eagle, am I not?" Her voice shakes only a little, of which she is briefly proud. "I will not abandon my friends. I am here to do the right thing."

Amplified by the cold, a branch snaps from somewhere beyond Shamir. "Have you shot them to the earth?" A hushed voice and an odd accent. Petra. "Are we capturing now the intruder?"

Flayn opens her mouth, but Shamir cuts her off.

"Help me get our prisoner back to camp."

Her mouth shuts with a dull _clop_. "I am not—!" She tries, suddenly very feeble. The lance moves smoothly to her cloak, piercing through and tangling it in one motion. Shamir tugs her from the back of the pegasus with a casual disdain that shocks her. "Wait, Bernadetta—!"

Her classmate tumbles groundward, only to be snatched up just in time by a new Figure, her long fiery hair pulled back, her uniform exchanged for that of a novice scout's. Flayn struggles to find her balance without toppling over into the half-frozen slush, looking to the girl with a silent appeal.

Their eyes finally meet over Bernadetta's disheveled head. "Oh," Petra exclaims, in her straightforward and endearing Way. "Our prisoner is Flayn?"

"No," Flayn again attempts to correct, but Shamir has her by one arm.

"There's no way she could have known where our camp would be." The former knight gives her a keen look, but Flayn suddenly wants very much to avoid explaining. "I'm sure Edelgard will have other questions for her."

She slips a little in the half-frozen mud, lifting her chin as high as it will go. There will be time to iron out this misunderstanding later, especially if they intend to bring her straight to Edelgard. "Very well," she relents, half-recognizing she has no real choice in the matter. "Please bring me to Lady Edelgard straight away. And—" She adds, her heart climbing into her throat. "And, if you could, please notify Lysithea I have arrived, as well."

But at this, the look shared between her captors turns her stomach more than either of her falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hc corner: Only female wyverns are trained for war because they are 20% larger/stronger than males. Roísín means "little rose" and Seteth trained her personally from a hatchling. Go back home, Roísín.
> 
> next time!: Saint Cethleann Fails to Endear Herself to the Devastatingly Beautiful Emperor of Adrestia (and otherwise tries to hide her heartache that her Good Friend Lysithea is not here)


	2. Saint Cethleann Rebuked by the Very Descendent of Emperor Wilhelm I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flayn attempts to convince the new Emperor of Adrestia that she has come with only the purest of intentions. It doesn't go as well as she expects. Luckily, she still has an ally to count on.

What a lovely space in which to plan a Revolution! The snow glints silver, crunching under her heels like the hardened icing on a sugar cookie. This must once have been an old trading post, or some other place of industry—here and there, the remains of a road reveal themselves in the flat, smooth ice and the lack of evergreen brush. Here and there stand abandoned wooden structures creaking under the weight of their own history, reclaimed by grasping green camellia shrubs. This was a watch tower, once. That, a gate and hitching post, once. Now sleeping wood, piles of hardened icing, and tenacious winter Blooms.

Shamir never looks back at her, and Flayn is treated to the sight of firelight slowly spreading along the stiff black raven-wings of the mercenary's hair. ...What a long-winded way to say how lovely she is in the contrast of orange Fire and blue Moonlight! Almost as soon as she has the thought, she remembers Ser Catherine, inevitably. The Lady Knight will certainly  _ not  _ be here, she knows, and knowing this makes her feel heavy. She is not the only one who left loved ones behind.

No, she is not.

_ Dear Lysithea will not be here, either _ —and this makes her heavy  _ and  _ a little sick.

Petra glances back over the slump of Bernadetta on her shoulder. Her bright eyes flicker to the makeshift bonds at Flayn's wrists. She looks as though she might apologize, but Flayn knows better than to expect it. Petra is too disciplined, kindhearted though she is. Flayn makes her reassurances by way of a small smile. This is not so uncomfortable a misunderstanding, really. When she speaks with Edelgard, she will make it known her intentions are only to assist her. She is a Rebel of the Church, too.

The square at the center of the abandoned post has been cleared of snow and debris, lined with torches, and a carefully-maintained fire provides the rebels some Light. A few large tents circle the warmth. From a few she can see familiar Shadows—Caspar and Linhardt, Dorothea and Professor Manuela. Rogue knights, mercenaries, a few battalions' worth of soldiers rest uneasily, tending to fires, erecting more tents, tending their Arms and Armor. They avert their eyes when caught staring. 

The largest of the tents dims as Flayn approaches with her two Captors. A lithe, familiar figure—though the pale green hair is still quite a shock!—raises his head and finds her peridot eyes with his own. Professor Byleth— _ the  _ Professor, as far as she's concerned—glances over the scene and for an instant his stoic mask slips. He mouths a question. Petra stutters and Shamir shakes her head. Flayn gives him a sheepish smile. The Professor has already seen fit to remove his Enlightened One garb, returning to the dark gray and midnight blue of his mercenary outfit. Perhaps that's for the best, she thinks. Though the White and Gold were quite striking, maybe it isn't so... appropriate, anymore.

But this, apparently, is not their final destination. Shamir guides them up the bare path to the largest Structure, tenacious enough to still have its roof and doors. In fact! this is an old Chapel! though the stained glass has long since disappeared and the carving of Saint Seiros's Crest has faded to obscurity. 

Here, then, is where Edelgard has gathered her first war table as a Rebel of the Church? 

In other situations, Flayn might have giggled, but this is very much its own unique circumstance. She is uncertain she could withstand another withering look from Shamir.

Two knights guard the weather-beaten door, one she recognizes in passing and one she has never seen before tonight; a woman, with chestnut hair, eyes of Shamir's same sharp, sea-deep Quality, and steel armor in contemporary Imperial style. The lady knight gives her a flashing glance and murmurs rudely in Dagdan.

"Mh," Shamir agrees, pulling their party up short. "MacNeary, you and Varley are dismissed." 

Petra salutes over Bernadetta's back and vanishes, every bit the soldier. Flayn feels a strange Ache, part regret and part unexpected nostalgia. 

"Edelgard busy?"

"The Emperor," Lady Knight corrects Shamir quickly, "is in a logistics meeting with her advisors."

"Doom and Perfume," Shamir concludes (to which Flayn conjures an image of the dreadfully grim Hubert von Vestra, and his aristocratic counterpart Ferdinand von Aegir). Flayn must smother another giggle. 

Shamir, meanwhile, shrugs off the Lady Knight’s glaring. "It's important."

The Imperial Knight stiffens, the plates of her armor clattering. "We're long past diplomatic meetings with Church officials, and  _ far beyond  _ considering them important."

"Excuse me, but I am not here on behalf of the Church of Seiros," Flayn speaks up finally. The Cold has soaked through the toes of her boots and now threatens to burn dreadfully. "I wish to join the Empire."

The Knight's eyes widen, and Shamir exchanges an unreadable look with her. And meanwhile, the ancient door explodes open with a sound like cracking ice.

"Flayn!" 

As large and warm as the Bonfire at her back: Ser Alois fills the empty frame of the chapel's entrance. He stares down at her with the same incredulousness as (it seems) everyone else has held, though his expression is significantly brightened with unmistakable Delight.

That is, until the Lady Knight positions her axe in his path, blocking his attempt to scoop Flayn into his massive arms.

Whatever logistics meeting was once underway is now stopped, only pensive Silence and the crackling of fire issuing forth from the chapel.

"Captured in an attempt to infiltrate the camp," Shamir informs him, as Alois's drooping gaze takes in Flayn's bound wrists and likely what her father calls her "most petulant look."

"To  _ reconvene _ ," Flayn insists. "With my allies."

"I, see," he stammers, and clears his throat. "Well. Then. I suppose the Emperor will need to speak with you two, after the meeting. You should wait out here with Ladislava."

A Shadow detaches itself from the darkness behind Alois. The grand knight audibly shivers.

"We agreed to forestall tonight's discussions," the Shadow rasps, a white face looming over Alois's shoulder. "Given the unexpected...  _ interruption. _ "

It is Flayn's turn to shiver, cold now within and without. Hubert's snake-colored gaze scans her briefly, leaving her both unsettled and angry. As he usually does. 

"Doom will handle your prisoner from here," he continues drily to Shamir. The mercenary is unimpressed, though she offers him a deadpan wink as she turns away.

Alois steps aside, obviously unhappy. The chapel yawns behind him, Shadow and Light flickering in equal measure. Hubert smirks down at her, glancing at her bonds but pointedly failing to address them. Well—Edelgard's retainer was always  _ quite  _ rude with Flayn. She had no reason to believe Hubert would fall over himself to tend to her bruised wrists or her wounded pride. 

Flayn holds her chin high and follows him into the Gloom.

Ferdinand—sweet, well-meaning Ferdinand!—stresses over a candle that will not stay lit. When she steps a precise distance toward him, he drops it to give her a quick but sincere bow. Behind him, a stone statue of Seiros is frozen in the middle of sweeping her long, graceful arm toward the missing congregation. And beside him sits the Emperor of Adrestia and once-classmate, Edelgard von Hresvelg—already she has shed her Officers Academy uniform in favor of a heavy red gown and high-collared cloak, and a Crown that seems not to fit her properly. Her long white hair in the Light of myriad candles is ethereal, otherworldly, snowfall on a full winter's moon. The look Edelgard gives her from across the decaying wooden altar, arrayed with maps and notes, is just as cold and distant.

In spite of the circumstances of her welcome, Flayn finds her breath caught in her chest and her heart pounding in her throat. Edelgard has always been so poised and beautiful before, but now, with just a few trappings of the nobility around her, she seems as a young Queen from an ancient fairy tale.

"Flayn," the Emperor greets her in a warm tone, though her eyes are still cold. "Your appearance is quite unexpected. I don't think I was alone in assuming you would stay in Garreg Mach."

Flayn swallows, searching for her voice. "Indeed," she squeaks, and holds back a wince. Why must she feel so small and—and  _ young _ , suddenly? "I was quite counting on this, in regards to those I left behind me. It should be some hours before anyone counts me missing."

Edelgard sifts through the parchment in front of her, idly, red gloves skimming over the rough edges. "And when they do?"

Flayn gives her a rueful smile. "I left an explanation of my absence to my brother, only."

"Your brother." Edelgard raises her head to give Hubert an unreadable Glance. The lanky young man, that living shadow, inclines his own head back at her, and smirks down at Flayn.

Flayn bristles.

"This is all in the name of necessary precautions," Ferdinand assures her, smiling genuinely, until his eyes light on her wrists. "Goodness—they had you  _ bound? _ " Casting a glare at Hubert, he rounds the altar toward her. Grateful he's finally noticed, Flayn holds out her hands.

"In the name of necessary precautions," Hubert echoes him in a growl.

"What is  _ necessary  _ about keeping a young girl in ropes?" Ferdinand sputters, and in seconds her wrists are free. She musters enough will to keep from rubbing at them. Something about this situation feels less like a meeting between classmates... But, of course, why wouldn't it? Edelgard has declared herself independent of the Church, and taken some of its most venerable Knights with her.  _ We are no longer in school. _

Still, she feels less as though she is addressing old comrades and more that she is... facing a court.

"You are worried I will somehow send word back to my brother of your location, or your plans," Flayn interprets their Looks between each other. "Let me assure you that I would never. I am no longer affiliated with the Church any more than you are."

Seiros looms silent, stony, over the Emperor of Adrestia, reaching toward nothing.

"Flayn," Edelgard continues again, and meets her gaze. There is ice there, and Steel, and behind all this a wariness that makes her want to scream. "We both know it isn't as simple as that. You can't just cast aside your connections to the Church of Seiros."

She knits her eyebrows. "I do not wish to sound impertinent, but have not Alois and Shamir already done this to your satisfaction?"

Edelgard holds her gaze for some time, hard and silent. Flayn struggles not to fidget. 

"I am a Black Eagle," Flayn presses, desperate to break the silence, "before I am a member of the Church. And before even that, I am a citizen of Adrestia. I was born in Enbarr!" 

"'That' Enbarr will be far different from the one you remember."

And again Flayn fights the urge to squirm as she is judged by the hard gaze of both Seiros and Edelgard.

With a sigh that breaks the dark Spell of the chapel, and even some of her new character, Edelgard turns to lean her chin on her hands. "These Black Eagles will be different, too," she murmurs.

"Bernadetta seems much the same," Flayn points out, hopeful. This earns a smile from Ferdinand, at least, but Edelgard frowns.

"And Lysithea—" Flayn suddenly cannot stop the words bubbling from between her lips. "She is—is it true what Shamir—has Lysithea gone to—"

"Then my suspicions were true," Hubert passes to Edelgard, loud enough yet that Flayn still might hear him. She thinks of the little letter in her cloak Pocket and feels an indignant, prickling heat behind her ears.

"Before she wrote to tell you of our location," and Edelgard pauses, arching an immaculate white eyebrow at her. Flayn cannot find it in her to refute this with a lie. "Lysithea took ill." Edelgard's expression freezes over again, her tone grows bitter. "Regrettably, she had to be escorted back to House Ordelia."

"Oh." The prickling heat now feels like panic manifest. Had dear Lysithea written knowing she was to take ill, be forced to return to her House? Was it not out of a need to see her friend that Lysithea had written Flayn to begin with?

"And when her escorts return, they will then convey  _ you _ back to your home at Garreg Mach." Hubert's unlikable face slides into something like a smile.

"That is  _ not  _ necessary," Flayn insists, planting her heels on the cold wooden floor. "I assure you I have come as an Imperial citizen and—and Edelgard's  _ friend _ ."

But her friend is looking her over in the much the same Way she has seen her father study a troublesome hatchling.

"There is simply too much to consider," Edelgard says in her new, frozen-throughout, Emperor's voice.

Ladislava's shout shatters the gloom. The ancient doors crack open, scraping awfully against the wood and stone floor. Edelgard jumps to her feet. Her advisors rock to their toes, Ferdinand's hand at the hilt of a silver Sword and the air moaning ominously around Hubert's fingers.

"Professor," Edelgard sighs. 

Flayn's spine straightens even as her insides gradually unclench. Byleth sweeps into the chapel, all grim Silence and stoic Facade. Rather than circle the altar, his stride carries him directly to Flayn's side. He stands quiet, expressionless, motionless.

Flayn is glad for his presence.

Ferdinand looks to Byleth as he often has before, a Student appealing to the better sense of the Teacher. Hubert's expression grows guarded, his arms crossed across his chest. Edelgard still has yet to settle into her chair.

"Professor," she repeats, as though practicing at it.  _ It must feel a bit strange _ , Flayn concedes,  _ to be Emperor of a nation and still have a teacher _ . "Your input here would... wouldn't be unwelcome. Flayn has expressed a wish to join our efforts against the Church."

Byleth nods.

A heartbeat of silence passes.

Slowly, Edelgard sits, knitting her brows. Ferdinand clears his throat.

"Of course, Miss Flayn's  _ sincerity  _ has never been in question," he chimes in. "She has never shown herself to be anything but a dear and ardent friend to everyone in the Black Eagle house."

Byleth nods again, folding his arms. Flayn glances up at him out of the corner of her eye, a spark of Hope slowly renewing itself in her heart. 

Hubert sighs, unfolding himself to rub at one temple. "She is not welcome here." 

The Emperor sighs in chorus, but does not correct him. A Shock as cold as ice water washes over Flayn—just like that, her hope sputters out. Not welcome—not _ welcome!  _ She counted these three as among her friends (even Hubert)! Was she mistaken all this time? 

"Why is that?"

The Professor speaks so rarely that at times it can make her jump clear from her heels. But Flayn holds her composure admirably (if she does say so herself) even as Ferdinand flinches and Edelgard's eyes go round.

"She is closely related to a high-ranking administrator of the Church," Hubert speaks plainly. "To say nothing of our other closely-held suspicions. Regardless of her peerless ability as a healer, we can not discount the very real possibility that she is a spy, even if she is unaware of it.”

Her face goes quite hot suddenly.

"Th-that, well," Ferdinand tries, and suddenly will not meet Flayn's gaze. "My  _ own _ concerns lie in what efforts the Church would undertake to, that is... Take her back."

Slowly, Byleth... nods. "Then I'll take responsibility for her."

A bit of skin across the bridge of her nose prickles, equal parts shame and Relief. She wants very much to object to this way of speaking about her as though she isn't there—as though she were a  _ child  _ who must be minded. But she knows better than to break the spell the Professor has cast. Edelgard, over her collar and under her Crown, is gradually beginning to blush.

"T-taking responsibility for her," she tries, before reclaiming her composure. "You have enough responsibility as it is." She points it out as though calling attention to a feature on a map— _ never would Edelgard ever protest or complain _ , Flayn thinks to herself, still a bit in awe of the young woman's presence, even through the sting of rejection. 

"Let me decide that."

"Given even your considerable talents—" Hubert steps forward, expression darkening. "Do you think it  _ wise _ , Professor, to take such a person as your ward at this sensitive time in our new Empire's history? A person who by her own admission has betrayed even family? Do you think it  _ safe _ ?"

"That's enough," is Byleth's only reply, flat and heavy. Hubert recoils. Edelgard is on her feet again. And Flayn feels at her shoulder the ghost of a touch guiding her away.

She hears the scuffle of well-born feet behind her, the scraping of a chair. Edelgard murmurs something, to which Hubert hisses, "Will his  _ responsibility  _ shield you from further reprisal from that  _ woman _ —" 

And suddenly Alois is at her side, the unforgiving gloom and the expressionless Glare of Seiros at her back. The ancient wooden door grinds shut. 

A man in Imperial finery, sharp-featured and handsome—a duke, perhaps, the roll of nobility blurred by her own confusion and hurt—watches them pass with clear consternation, and a bit of anger. Ladislava trades words with him as he enters the chapel after them, and in the rush all Flayn can hear is "Arundel."

The bonfire in the village square warms the night. Byleth's gloved hand rests a little more fully on the shoulder of her cloak, enough that she can feel a comforting heat. 

"That sounded intense," Alois blusters, smiling and awkward but clearly glad to keep himself between Flayn and the Emperor's councillors. "And here I thought the nobles weren't going to be sleeping...  _ in tents. _ "

Flayn gives him a lukewarm smile, her gaze drifting back toward Byleth's face. Usually expressionless, the Professor is—ah, this isn't  _ quite  _ an Expression, still, only his face seems not so much blank anymore as purposely stoney. Perhaps even slightly... angry?

"Thank you, Professor." She reaches to take his hand from her shoulder, and plant it firmly within hers. "I did not expect to have so much trouble explaining myself to them."

He inclines his head. The largest tent, the one she saw him exit earlier, sits at the edge of a circle around the bonfire. Other Lights in the square have dimmed, leaving only fire and moonlight once again. Byleth's hand in hers gives her a gentle squeeze—so unexpected she gasps—before releasing her to free and pin the outer flap of his tent.

"Er," Alois begins. "Should I room with you then, Professor, and prepare my tent for the young lady? It's nothing personal, you know."

Byleth stops to stare at him. 

"I have a daughter of my own," Alois continues, gesturing, evidently hoping Byleth will understand the Shape of what he's implying.

Flayn forces back a smile. Do they hardly know him? If only Lysithea were here...! With her own tent, this matter could be so tidily resolved. 

_ But she is not here—she is ill. She is more delicate than she would ever admit and she is ill enough to be forced to leave... _

Flayn rushes to interrupt Alois's failed attempts at signaling human social cues to the Professor—perhaps too loudly, desperate as she is to drown the doubts in her mind. "Thank you, Ser Alois, but that will not be necessary. I consider the Professor a second... brother." Goodness, but did she almost say "father?" Byleth turns to open the tent and Alois makes a noise of surprise.

"Is that so! I appreciate your judgment, Miss Flayn, but—all the same—I hope you won't mind if I stay nearby? You've probably had enough  _ in-tents-ity  _ for tonight."

Her first response is a bit of irritation—hasn't she said her peace? Hasn't she said Byleth, and her Word, are to be trusted? But this is something of the old Flayn, the Flayn who would search for every opportunity to clash with her father. The Flayn who was so desperate to prove she wasn't a child, in such childish ways.

"I suppose I cannot dissuade you," is what she says, affecting disinterest in the whole situation.

Alois blinks like an owl before bursting into laughter. "Well! For a moment I almost mistook you for the Lady Ordelia." 

The remainder of his observation is drowned out by the Roar of blood in her ears. 

Alois laughs again, and Byleth shoots Flayn a look, gesturing to the availability of his room. The soft magical light within blooms pale orange. Still snickering, Alois bids them goodnight, taking his leave to reposition his own tent.

Byleth glances again, longer—a proper Stare. Flayn instinctively raises her hands to her face, and laughs at the heat under her gloved fingers. "Alois surprised me, is all!"

He looks vaguely thoughtful. "Was Alois worried I would do something to you?"

The heat in her face is for completely different reasons now. "Have you only now...?" Her giggle is girlish and nervous—a bit embarrassing. "Yes, I think he was. Oh, but  _ I  _ have no such concerns, Professor."

The searching Look behind his green eyes refuses to fade. "I'll stay with him, then. You can have this space. I said I'd take responsibility for you."

And if that isn't the largest number of complete sentences she's heard him say from without the classroom! "If... If you insist," she folds, quite taken aback. "Thank you."

The Professor remains in place, holding the tent flap ajar, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. "Before I go, I wanted to ask you."

Flayn waits for the explanation, but none comes. Of course, she knows what he means—others might insist Professor Byleth is impossible to read, or devoid of emotion, but she's become quite adept at reading even the most minute of his Quirks. 

"Is it about my coming here, instead of remaining at Garreg Mach?" She bravely attempts a smile. 

"I don't think you're a traitor." 

He never needed to say it, but hearing the words bolsters her all the same. "No, but I fear Lady Rhea will, for certain. And..." She hesitates. The Lie feels so cumbersome when performing it for the Professor, but anyone could yet overhear them. "I do not know how my brother will feel."

"I do."

Her chest aches, acutely. Byleth glances away as Something dims the light behind his eyes. He looks... saddened, she realizes with surprise. He appears genuinely crestfallen. How had his Enlightenment changed him?

Flayn reaches to cover his hand with hers, gently taking it from the tent and holding it again, warm near her heart.

"I left Garreg Mach behind to join my companions, and my professor, because I knew it was the right thing to do. I believe Edelgard can change the Church, and heal the divides between all of Fodlan's people."  _ Even if she does not think I belong here, after all. _ She chases the thought away with a shake of her head. "This is... The same as your reason, is it not?"

After a brief pause, his pale green eyes flickering over her expression, Byleth nods.

"And it was difficult, was it not?" The Ache in her chest returns, stiff enough to make her gasp before her next sentence. "Knowing what you were leaving behind—those who love and trust you?"

Slowly, he nods.

She is smiling in spite of herself, in spite of the stinging behind her eyes. "You inspired me, Professor. You moved me to do the right thing in spite of the pain and the loss."

Byleth's eyes widen, and Flayn releases his hand to push aside the tent flap. 

"I have more I would like to discuss with you on the matter, but it is quite late, quite cold, and—" A loud scraping interrupts her: Alois physically pulling his unmoored tent across the crusty snow. "—And Alois has arrived." 

She gives her Professor one last smile. "Thank you for the use of your temporary quarters. I will speak more on this tomorrow."

Never one to hide her emotions—even the more unpleasant ones—Flayn is nonetheless relieved for even the thin canvas barrier between her and the camp. The Ache has overtaken her, striking from between her ribs, behind her eyes, lodging a lump in her throat. It had been difficult for Byleth, also, to leave, no matter how righteous his Cause. She wishes this to ease her own anguish, but try as she might, she cannot banish the thought of her father devastated at her empty room, her terse little note, her presence in the camp of his enemies.

_ This was not inevitable, _ she tells herself in a vain attempt to rouse her own anger. Her Tears are hot enough to scald, and she silently rubs them away on her sleeves.  _ He was never required to take Seiros's side in this! _

Perhaps there could still be a way to reach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hc corner: gonna use "Ser" for knights because Sir isn't quite right, and Catherine ain't no Lady.
> 
> next time!: A Time When Saint Cethleann Realized She Had Much In Common with the Heir of House Ordelia, and like, They're Really Such Good Friends, Just Very Dear Acquaintances


End file.
